Lawd of Them Hills
by Princess Faz and Make it Stop
Summary: What if Faramir and Boromir had been hillbillies?
1. Gondor Holler

Go'nder Holler

The postman paused to wipe the sweat from his dripping brow, then continued up the…was this supposed to be a driveway? Two dirt ruts meandered up the ridiculously steep hillside, grass growing in between them. Steep was an understatement, but incredulously he could see where deer or cows had made paths slanting down the sides. They must be the kind with two legs shorter than the others. This morning's rain showers had made the ruts muddy enough that the mail truck had gotten stuck near the bottom of the trail. Of all days! In his hand, he had a certified letter which had to be signed for personally.

This being his second week on the job, he'd never been up the Dennis's house before, although he'd heard an earful, none of it too encouraging. The Dennises had lived there for generations and were well known in the valley. Mr. Dennis had a reputation as a tough old bird. As the postman walked, he noticed dozens of "No Trespassing" signs tacked to the trees all around him. As if anyone would ever voluntarily set foot inside Go'nder Holler! But today, he had to.

Damp with sweat from the humid air, trudging along the left-hand rut, he came at last to a clearing and saw what looked to be the house. One of those ancient farmhouses, with cheap, outlandish-looking additions stuck here and there. The paint was peeling and chipped, the tin roof sagging. Several outbuildings were scattered about, covered in brown tar paper. Countless junk cars and old lawn mowers were scattered here and there, some rusted away right down to the frames. Chickens pecked in the dust, searching for grubs amid the scraggly weeds. Garbage littered the yard.

As the mailman stepped hesitantly out of the trees, a pack of bluetick hounds commenced to barking and howling. Two or three raced over to him, causing him to stop short and draw his bag in front of him protectively. The others stayed where they were, baying lazily at the sky from the porch steps. On the porch itself, a solitary figure clad in Dickies overalls was seated in a cane chair, whittling. His long black hair, streaked with gray, hung in sweaty strands. His lower lip was pooched out in a sneer of concentration beneath a dark, jutting brow. The postman guessed that this must be Mr. Dennis.

"Shut up, you goddam hounds!" The figure on the porch tossed aside his whittling, and reached behind him for a twelve-gauge shotgun. "Jist you hold it right there."

"Whoa!" The postman held both hands up in front of his chest. "Just the mail, Mistuh Dennis. Got you a certified letter what needs signin'."

"Ah got me a perfectly good mailbox down by th' road. Cain't you read? I doan' 'low nobody on my land."

"Th' letter needs yo' personal autygraph, Mistuh Dennis. Can't just stick it inside the apple crate like ushual. By the by, y'all got hornets nestin' in yo' mailbox. Make my job easier if you removed 'em."

Dennis scowled. "You sure you ain't from the welfare office?"

"I done told you already…I'm jus' the mailman."

"What happened to the old one?"

"He up and quit las' week. Rabid coon bit him. Now hurry up and sign for this, if you please, Mistuh Dennis. I ain't got all day. An X'll do fine if you cain't write your name."

Dennis lowered his gun and took the letter from the postman. When he saw the return address, his brow creased into a sharp, unhappy frown, and his fist tightened around the butt of the shotgun.

* * *

Out in the pasture, Dennis' two sons, Ferris and Burris, were riding ATVs around the property, inspecting the day's handiwork. They'd been clearing stumps and kudzu since sunup, trying to reclaim the fertile land from the encroaching woods left there by many generations of neglect. Huge piles of brush and uprooted invasive vines lay all around the edge of the field. Burris, the elder son, had blond hair down to his shoulders, partially obscured by a black cap with a NASCAR logo. A wad of chewing tobacco bulged in his cheek beneath a generous, flaring nose. He wore faded jeans and a black T-shirt with the motto "Liquor in the front, Poker in the rear." Ferris, five years younger, also bore the family nose, as well as piercing blue eyes and a ginger mullet pulled pack in a ponytail. Both were grubby, exhausted, and covered with scratches.

"Looky there," Burris said to his little brother, as they pulled up at the summit of a gentle ridge and surveyed acres of cleared land. "This here property used to be the jewel of our family…a place of Saturday hootenanies and tin can shootin' and tobaccy farming. And Lord willin', it will be once more. We been on this land for generations, going way back." Drawing a dirty, snot-flecked white handkerchief out of his back pocket, he waved it over his head like a lasso, and let out a whoop that echoed through the ruined trees.

"Burris…." said Ferris, in a subdued voice. "I had a dream about this here pasture last night."

"I ain't surprised," said Burris, "you been working so hard lately. Ever time I close my eyes, I see thickets of wood."

"No. This were a different dream." Something in Ferris' voice made Burris turn around. "I was standin' right over yonder by that crick. They was a big black thunderstorm brewing up from the east, but in the west, the sky was still clear. The whole field was paved, like a huge concrete wave had come and flooded it. And some lady was singin' about coffee."

"Coffee?" Burris squinted.

"Yeah, she was singin' real purty-like. _Seek for the almond latte, in Starbucks it dwells. There shall be soy milk ordered, Try the hazelnut shots they sell."_

"Star bucks? Lat-tay? What the hell…? You gotta quit hittin' the jug afore bedtime, Ferris."

"I guess. It was mighty muggy last night. I had trouble sleepin'."

"You ain't been into the 'wacky tobaccy' again, have you?"

"Nope. Leastaways not since Sat'day." Ferris shrugged. "Soon's I woke up, I forgot it. I didn't pay it no never mind till we came out here."

"All this jawbonin' is cuttin' into our drinkin' time," said Burris. "Let's go score us some Pabst. We done earned it."

As the boys revved back down the trail and emerged into the clearing around the house, Ferris' face clouded.

"What?" said Burris.

"What's Pappy always gotta be hangin' around the porch for? Ever' blessed day. He never does anything 'cept sit there and whittle."

Dennis was already on his feet, coming down the porch steps as they parked the ATVs next to the old enamel washtub.

"Whar is he?" said Dennis, weaving his way through cinderblocks, plastic buckets, and old tires filled with jimsonweed. "Whar's mah stud bull?"

"Pappy!" said Burris, grinning weakly and dismounting.

"All sweaty and tired from single-handedly clearing out the back forty…that's mah boy…" With a toothy grin that showed off his best (and only) incisor, Dennis clapped his eldest son on the shoulder.

"Ferris was out there too," said Burris impatiently. "He uprooted 'bout three dozen stumps today. Killed a copperhead, too."

"Ferris." Dennis' grin collapsed into a glare. "Good-for-nothing, lazy, no-account shitkicker. If it weren't for you, always spongin' off this family, your brother woulda cleared all them scrub woods by now and we'd be collecting big fat tobaccah subsidy checks from the Marlboro man. I'm right 'shamed to be seen in town with you. Always embarrassin' me."

"'Taint purposeful," said Ferris, his face crestfallen.

"Cut him some slack, Pappy," interjected Burris. "He hauls jack-pine logs 'n' burns brush 'n' fetches water all day just like you done tole him to, and you don't give him even a howdy-do for it."

"I ain't got no truck with Ferris," said their father contemptuously. "He ain't much use round here, with them skinny chicken-legs and book-larnin' ideas. We got other fish to fry. Get in here." He waved the letter at Burris and jerked his head at the doorway. Obediently, Burris followed him into the house, leaving a dirty and exhausted Ferris to eavesdrop from outside, supported only by the porch railing.

In the living room, Denny sat in the worn-out La-Z-Boy recliner. He unfolded the letter.

"Got a official letter from the big city. There's gonna be a meetin' to talk about Go'nder Holler."

"Talk? What's there to talk about?"

"The original owners are invokin' their property rights. Seems they want to void the lease, turn us off, and sell the land to Starbucks. There's a hearin' tomorrow with the owner, the lawyers, and this developer fella."

"Original owners?" Burris spat an incredulous stream of tobacco juice. "I thought we was the ones owned this land."

"No, son."

"But we've been farming here for years. You, and your pap, and your pap's pap before him… Ain't nobody else looked after it but us."

"We's only sharecroppers. The land itself belongs to another family."

"What other family? Who's making this here claim?"

"A gentleman by the name of H. Aristotle Gorn. Seems some ancestor of his went off to fight in the War of Northern Aggression and left our family as caretakers of Go'nder Holler, till they could get back on their feet financially and reclaim their birthright. Took 'em long enough." Denny brandished the letter with a trembling hand.

"We been workin' this land for generations, Pappy. By now, legally, it oughta be our'n…How many damn years it take for us to become owners, if they don't come back?"

"Not many, maybe, if you're white trash livin' in some trailer park on a toxic waste dump….but in Gondor Holler, ten thousand years wouldn't be near long enough. We're sittin' on the best land in the whole county."

"So what we gonna do, Pappy?"

"You gotta go to this meetin', Son. You gotta stand up against this here Gorn feller, and claim squatters' rights for us. If anybody's gonna profit off three-dollar coffees, it's the Dennises. That Starbucks gotta come to us, an' nobody else."

"Me? But I belong here in the holler, Pappy. Who's gonna cut the brush and turf out the varmints?"

Ferris couldn't stand it any longer. The screen door squeaked as he entered.

"Look, Pa….if you need to send one of us to the big city, I'll go, 'stead of Burris."

Denny snorted in derision. "Send you to the meetin'? So you can be the big-shot hero? That dog won't hunt. You ain't got notion one of what you'd be up against. Them slick city lawyers could sweet-talk the legs off a donkey, then persuade it to go for a walk afterwards. I gotta send somebody strong to show 'em who's boss."

Ferris's face fell, and his eyes dropped to the floor. Burris looked over at him sympathetically. He knew there was no talking Pa out of this.

"Burris will handle it," said Den confidently. "He ain't never let me down yet."

* * *

As Burris sat idling in the truck, Ferris stood by the driver's side window, regarding him with a mixture of envy and brotherly adoration. It wasn't fair. Burris always got to drive the 4 x 4, with the Yosemite Sam mudflaps, the Lynyrd Skynrd eight-tracks, the special antique horn that played the first twelve notes of "Dixie". And now here he was going off to the big city. Ferris had a sudden premonition that he might not see his brother again. Or that if he did, Burris would come back changed and barely recognizable.

"Y'all be careful," said Ferris. "I hear there's loose women 'n' Democrats in the big city."

"I can take care of myself jes' fine," said Burris. "But just the same, I'll miss you and Pappy. Today was one to remember, warn't it?"

Succumbing to the urge to show off, Burris jammed the accelerator down till the wheels spun. Blue smoke erupted from the tailpipe. Then he slammed the truck into gear and peeled out of the yard, sending a shower of mud up behind him. 'Dixie' floated back mournfully through the trees. Ferris stood there for a long time, covered in flecks of mud, looking down the road where his brother had gone.

* * *

Den fetched a cold beer from the ice box to calm his nerves, and went into the back bedroom. Burris was the right man for the job, no question about it. Still, the thought of being alone at home with Ferris made his skin crawl. There was something about that boy that put a prickly burr up his tailpipe.

Shut safely inside his dark bedroom, Den grabbed the remote and pointed it at the TV, which sat on top of an old console TV. That old one didn't work, but it made a mighty fine TV stand. He turned it on to make some noise, then picked up the phone. He knew he shouldn't do this…knew it was slowly warping his mind…but he had to know what was happening to his own property. What the developer's dark plans might be. With a pale, shaking finger, he began to dial the 900 number.


	2. Denny and La'Tisha

"Psychic hotline….Miss La'Tisha speaking." The snap of blackjack gum crackled through the wire.

"La'Tisha, hit's me agin. Denny."

"Oo, Den-nis darlin'," the voice exclaimed, its accent warm and heavily Jamaican. "Crescent fresh! 'ow you do today?"

"Not so good. Got impo'tant thangs hap'nin. Ah needs some advice."

"Okey, mon. Give me de numbers, an' I read dem ole cards fo you."

Dennis gave her the same seven random numbers he always did. "1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7." They were easy for him to remember. He could hear Miss La'Tisha breathing and shuffling tarot cards on the other end of the phone. She always took her sweet time, trying to use up as much of the three free minutes as possible.

"Coo yah darlin', less see what we got. Fuhst card….oh my. De Pilgrim. Someone you know goin' on a trip?"

Den was electrified. "Burris…my son."

"Uh huh, uh huh, see? Miss La'Tisha always know. Well, he be fine if he be careful, but I dun know…dis nex' card here…."

"What? What you see?"

"Ooh. Empty house wit dark clouds, mon. Bulldozers. Oh my…dis look like bandulu bizness. Blackheart man come an' swindle yo' land. Not good."

Den gripped the phone. His palms were sweating and his forehead ached. The walls of the room were simultaneously rushing away and pressing in on him. Overhead, the bare light fixture was popping and shimmering. He could hear voices murmuring, like water on stones.

"Someting else 'appening," Miss La'Tisha said. "White foam…yo son be in danger…."

A strong smell of coffee pervaded the room. Dennis' pupils contracted into tiny points as everything went dark. There was fire…burning trees…..Hundreds of identical SUVs, parked on acres of brand new asphalt. Mothers shuffling despondently in a straight line, each one clutching an empty cardboard cup. Gaunt students and workers with grey faces, waiting.

The images came faster and faster. An evil hissing, a scalding cataract of foam. A diabolical chrome machine that released a rare and precious black liquid. Oil? Frankincense? A mob of people was begging for it…wailing…. elbowing and trampling one another to get at it. The masters of the black liquid cackled in triumph, ensnaring their victims with the fiendish substance. Torrents of money flowed across Den's vision. The groans of the wounded and desperate pierced the air. Laborers toiled on tropical plantations, while the rainforest burned around them and the red soil dried up into desert.

Then, the ultimate horror…Dennis saw his own two sons in chains, kneeling and pleading for caffeine. Burris had the shakes. "Ask for it the RIGHT way," snarled the barista, cracking an ugly black whip across Ferris' bare back. "There's no such size as 'medium'". Ferris writhed on the floor, his face contorted with the agony of withdrawal, his chest hair sticky with Sugar Twin.

"NO!" Dennis shrieked and fell backwards onto the bed, clutching at the air in front of him. A sickly white nightmarish glare flashed through his head and vanished, leaving him reeling. The phone clattered onto the floor.

"Missah Dennis? You okey?" Miss La'Tisha's voice quacked through the receiver. "I be legally required to remind you dat dis call be for entertainment purposes only."

With a trembling hand, Dennis groped for the phone. "Ah'm here."

"Okey. One mo' ting I got to tell you. Your son…"

"Which one?" Fog swirled in dense loops through Dennis' mind. His eyes were still unfocused. A stalactite of spittle hung from his lower lip.

"De las'-born. De noble one. It's yo turn to cut him some slack, girlfrien'. Mmm-mmm. Don't be dissin' 'im no mo. Dat junk be bonk."

"'Scuse me?" Dennis struggled to reconcile "noble" with "last-born". They'd been over this territory before. La'Tisha believed firmly that Dennis should start treating his sons more equally. Dennis believed firmly that she should butt out.

"Dat's what dese las' two cards say. De fuhst card is de King. De card of male fertility, a rival, a competitor. Dat prob'y mean yo' son. De second card is Stren'th, an' it represent a determined individual. Or a stubborn one. An' you as stubborn as dey come, honey. Dese two fight wit each other like crayfish in a barrel."

"A rival…" Dennis suddenly remembered H. Aristotle Gorn. "Does a King have th' right to claim any piece o' land he wants? Even by force?"

"Might be…He a powerful enemy, the King. Dangerous, oh my, mm-hmm."

Outside, the sun was setting, the last rays slanting through the dusty greasepaper window. Dennis shook his head to clear it.

"To ward 'im off, you be wear purple tomorrow. The color purple be good mojo. Protect your body from 'arm."

"Purple…" Den tried to think what he owned that might be purple.

"Now I see 'orses galloping."

"Them might belong to my kin up over yonder hill." The Rowans, cousins of Dennis' from the shallow end of the gene pool, were obsessive horse breeders. In recent years they'd started to trade in the horses for quads and motorbikes, which were much more useful for hauling salt blocks and hay bales, and getting into town. Their stables now boasted an impressive array of engines, which never needed feeding or grooming or shoeing or exercise.

"Could be. The 'orses I see are goin' round a track. I also see the number 14. You a bettin' man, Missah Dennis?"

"No, no…well, mebbe…." Dennis' head was still throbbing from his vision. He needed to lie down for a bit. "I got to go now, La'Tisha. You been mos' helpful."

"Okey, den. Cool runnings."

Den hung up the phone and stumbled onto the porch, the screen door groaning. Night was falling and he'd been thinking about huntin' some possum for tomorrow's supper, but now his head hurt so bad he needed to get drunk instead. It was taking longer and longer for the fog and the pain to lift after his sessions with Miss La'Tisha. The boys had learned to steer clear when he was having one of his "spells".

So Mr. Gorn was dangerous! He was planning to take the land from Dennis and throw them out on the street like bums. And after his family had lived here for generations. Just when Burris was coming of age to take over the homestead. Den growled. He could feel the hatred for Aristotle Gorn start to burn in the pit of his stomach…or maybe it was the fried mash he'd had for dinner.

The bug zapper was going a mile a minute. Den grabbed a bottle of Night Train and settled down to watch.


	3. The White CEO

From her office on the 73rd floor of a black onyx skyscraper (designed by the Indian architect I. Singh Ard), Sarah Mann, the White CEO of Starbucks, cackled delightedly as she watched a live web feed of the groundbreaking ceremony for the latest franchise. An orphanage, a library, and a petting zoo had been razed to make way for it.

Not for nothing was Sarah known as the White CEO. Everything about her was white, from the plush Berber carpeting that stretched across the vast acreage of her office, to the crisp, snowy linen suits and hair scrunchies she favored. Even her long blonde hair radiated a glossy brilliance. White was pure. White was merciless. White went with everything.

As one tree after another toppled in orderly succession, Sarah toasted them silently with her mid-morning vanilla soy macchiato (served at exactly 140 degrees). Starbucks earth-moving machines were the most efficient in the business. Her top engineers had cross-bred a bulldozer with a fertilizer spreader to create a strong, fuel-efficient, tireless fleet of mutant construction equipment that could level a forest in minutes, destroy all wildlife, and salt the earth, rendering the area sterile for generations to come. The patent application referred to them as "killdozers".

A dark, troubling secret was nagging at Sarah today. Arriving home last week from a business trip to Ohio, she was sure she had brought the Starbucks marketing strategy document back with her. Yet when she unpacked, it was nowhere to be found. That marketing plan was a classified document, so top secret that only one hard copy existed. The original computer file had been unceremoniously shot – deleted, rather – as soon as it was printed out. Sarah had labored for years over that document, pouring all of her malice, all of her cruelty, into it. It contained all of Starbucks' deepest, most powerful and vile secrets, from viral marketing to predatory pricing calculated to drive mom 'n' pop coffee shops out of business. It also had the ten-year franchise growth plan carefully mapped out. If that document were to fall into the wrong hands, it could topple their empire…..Sarah shuddered. She couldn't have misplaced it. She just couldn't have. It had to be here somewhere.

One idle, cream-shellacked talon caressed the stack of reports on her desk. Though the rest of her nails were kept trimmed to a no-nonsense ¼", Sarah's left pinky nail was three inches longer than the rest. This was the nail she used to snort coke. Her slimy assistant, Graham Wormtape, was the only person who knew the source of the relentless energy and aggressive drive that had made Starbucks the most profitable and ubiquitous chain on earth. Everybody else just assumed she was a naturally a bitch.

_Maybe we ought to start putting blow in the coffee_, Sarah thought. She grabbed her memo pad, which listed agenda topics for the quarterly meeting. Under "Launch marketing campaign for preschool demographic", she wrote "New variety: Colombia's Finest. Built-in brand loyalty".

Sarah's eye fell on the topmost document in the stack of reports, a spreadsheet of upcoming franchise locations she'd copied out of the marketing plan before going to Ohio. A place called "Go'nder Holler" was next on the list. From the sound of it, a blot of nowhere nothingness in the middle of some hick state. To Sarah's way of thinking, hillbillies ought to be slobberingly grateful to be included in Starbucks' global network of sophisticated, pricey coffees. Instead, they'd no doubt kick up a fuss. Small-town hicks generally resisted progress. Like the proverbial horse, they had to be led to water and told to drink. She was doing them a favor, on the same scale as rural electrification.

"Go'nder Holler", she wrote on her memo pad. "Send all killdozers. Leave none alive."


	4. The Banishment of Ferris

**Chapter 4: The Banishment of Ferris**

The next morning, Dennis staggered bleary-eyed into the living room, barked his shin on the cable-spool coffee table, and cursed. His head was full of roiling black thunder, and felt like it was going to split apart at any moment. The purple wifebeater La'Tisha had told him to put on wasn't helping. Outside, cicadas were starting to buzz in the trees, and the air was muggy. He glared at Ferris, who was watching "Cannonball Run" on the rabbity-eared TV for the four thousandth time.

"You do the chores yet?"

"Milked the cows, slopped the pigs, fed and watered the horses, mended the fence rail in the front paddock, chopped an' stacked firewood, took the tractor crankcase apart and put it in a kerosene bath to soak."

"Then get off yo' ass and fix me some breakfast," Denny said.

"Sho' nuff, Pappy," said Ferris, leaping up off the couch and shambling into the kitchen.

That irritated Denny. Burris would've said "Fetch it yo'self" without ever taking his eyes off the TV, but Ferris was like an underfed pup-dog. The more you kicked him, the more he rolled over and begged.

Den stared at his wedding photo, which was hanging in pride of place behind the busted sofa. (Thank God he'd remembered to remove the toothpick from his mouth when it was taken.) The boys' mama, Fiona Dooley, had been one of the prettiest women in the whole county. A bona-fide hot patootie. One of the river folk. Den had met her at the 4-H booth at the county fair when they were fifteen. Boy howdy, she made a mean gooseberry-rhubarb pie. The blue ribbons were still tacked to the wall of the barn.

Burris, their high school "accident", had turned out real well, despite being born on a pool table. He was Den's boy all the way – big and strong, loved to fight and drink and cat around, good with machinery and livestock. In high school, he captained the football team and even dated Miss Junior Alfalfa Queen briefly. A man could be real proud of a boy like that.

Then there was Ferris. Den wished he and Fiona had quit while they were ahead. Ferris was like having one of them space aliens around the house, the kind you always read about in the supermarket tabloids. Slender and quiet, with an unnerving blue gaze. Always wasting time reading books that didn't even have pictures. Den had peeked into one once, to see if they were dirty books, which would have at least meant his son was halfway normal. Instead Den discovered something worse: they were full of uppity notions and eggheaded, 10-dollar words. After a lot of yelling, a sound thrashing, and a week-long hunger strike by Ferris, the books eventually ended up in the outhouse.

_At least real space aliens go away after they done with you_, Den thought. _An' sometimes they gives you winnin' lottery numbers, or a two-headed chicken, in payment for all yer troubles_. From the kitchen, something sizzled on the griddle. Hominy again, from the smell of it. Den stood in the doorway and scowled. Ferris was wearing an apron, for God's sake.

"Cain't you fix something other than grits?" he growled. "I'm sick of 'em."

"That's all we got, Pappy. Sorry."

"Stick your sorries in a sack. Why ain't we got eggs?"

"Th' hens are broody."

"They wasn't broody t'other day, when Burris was fetchin' the eggs."

Ferris shrugged. "Well, now they is."

"You been doin' somethin' to 'em?"

"Like what?" Ferris scraped the pan vigorously with a spatula. "Think I've been sneakin' into the coop an' throwin' down rotten feed corn? Doin' a voodoo dance to hex 'em? I got to do without eggs too, you know."

"Don't you sass me, boy. You may be growed, but you ain't too big to go over my knee."

"Then what you think I been doin'?"

"How the hell should I know? All I know's this place always fall apart when Burris ain't here."

Ferris put down his spatula and turned around, arms folded. "What you sayin', Pappy?"

"I'm sayin' it's time you does your fair share of work 'round here. I'm getting' sick of trippin' over you in the livin' room. We still got fifty acres to clear, and you layin' around watchin' junk on TV."

"It's 7 o'clock AM of the mornin'. A body can't rest on the couch for five minutes after finishin' the chores?"

"Shut your piehole, boy." Den's skull was pounding with pain. Inside, the thunder clouds were boiling. Voices whispered within his head. "We ain't runnin' this farm for fun an' games. First the hens stop layin'. Next the cows'll go dry. Then the crops'll fail, and we won't eat this winter. And you'll be sittin' there in that frilly apron, tellin' me it don't mean no never mind."

"What you want me to do? I already bust my hump ever' day from sunup to sundown." Ferris banged the pan down into the sink. The grits were smoking and black. He started to scrape them into the compost barrel.

"What you doin'? Now you're wastin' perfectly good grits?"

"They're burnt."

"They ain't either."

"They're BURNT," said Ferris through clenched teeth. "They ain't edible. You done distracted me, and they overcooked."

Den saw red. An ungrateful lazy screw-up kid was one thing, but wasting food and calling your father a liar was another. He grabbed Ferris in a headlock. The hot pan clattered to the floor, strewing grits everywhere. As Ferris struggled to get free, his feet slipped on the grits, and he fell to the floor with a crash, bringing Den down on top of him. This infuriated Den even more, and he pinned Ferris face-down against the linoleum. La'Tisha had told him to wear purple, told him to subdue his rival, showed him what would come to pass if he failed. Modernity was coming to Gondor Holler, bringing a topsy-turvy new order in which sons refused to obey their fathers, and coffee cost four dollars a cup.

"Don't you backtalk me, boy," Den growled. "If I say the grits ain't burnt, they ain't burnt."

With his face pressed against the floor, Ferris thought that the grits certainly smelled burnt to him, but he wisely kept his mouth shut and waited for his father's fit of madness to pass. At last Den relented and stood up.

"Clean this mess up," said Den. "Then get out of the house. Out of my sight. I want you out cuttin' that north pasture. An' don' come back till it's completely cleared."

***

Ferris surveyed the dark, tangled undergrowth and sighed heavily. The north pasture was infested with poison ivy, chiggers, snakes, nettles, and ticks. A person would have to be suicidal to attempt to clear it out. His nose and cheeks were still throbbing and scarlet from being ground against scorched hominy and sandy linoleum. Grits clung to his neck. His father's order to clear out every last weed and vine and stump from this accursed, swampy piece of land would mean weeks of camping out, sleeping on the ground, getting bit by mosquitoes, living on whatever meager possum and skunk he could manage to get with his slingshot. He'd never had to clear brush without Burris. Some of those big persimmon trees looked like a two-man job.

At least there was a waterfall nearby. He could get fresh water from the stream and bathe out here. It would be a relief to get away from his father for awhile. Ferris always dreaded being alone with him. Lately, he'd been acting crazy.

The sound of an engine startled him out of his reverie. Behind him, Ferris' cousin Elmer Rowan burst out of the trees on a four-wheeled ATV, did a couple of donuts, ran over some shrubs, and let out a holler. Ferris flagged him down.

"Ferris! What you doin' out here, my man?" Elmer took off his mesh baseball cap, which had a golden horse motif on the front and two empty beer holsters on each side, and wiped sweat off his broad forehead. His hair hung down his back in a long blond ponytail.

"Pappy threw me out of the house," said Ferris. "Said I cain't come back till I clear this pasture."

Elmer whistled. "That's a mighty tough job. You get bit by a coral snake out here, you ain't comin' back at all."

"I ain't worried about no coral snakes. I'm worried about how long it's gonna take me to grub up this entire field. Gotta be at least ten acres, what you think?"

"Reckon so. Geez." Elmer scratched his head. "You got you a place to sleep?"

"Yeah, we got an ol' tin shed down yonder."

"Well. Good luck with it." Elmer started to rev his engine.

"Listen, Elmer…" Ferris grabbed the handlebars to stop him from leaving. "You got a whole bunch of brothers and men cousins livin' over at your place, all of 'em unemployed. Think y'all could help me out here?"

"Help you out?….Now just a minute…y'all didn't come to our aid last fall when it was apple harvestin' time. Mr. Dennis claimed all three of you was laid up with the grippe. We lost half our orchard to that hurricane. So why should we help y'all out now?"

"Because y'all are kin… because we need to reclaim this partic'lar plot of land for farmin' and get it profitable….and because if you don't, y'all are goin' to have a lovely view of a parkin' lot six months from now. " Ferris explained to Elmer about the letter, and the meeting that Burris had gone to.

"You don't say." Elmer's eyes widened. "Lemme see what I can do."

***

"I want to go too!" Elmer's sister Winnie stood in the doorway, brandishing a big pair of pruning shears. The Rowans were gathering in the yard, ready to march on the north pasture. There was much clamor and confusion. Theodore "Teddy" Rowan, the patriarch, was busy taking a headcount, handing out calamine lotion and moleskin patches, and making sure all ATVs had riders over the age of seven.

"Outta the way, Winnie," said Elmer, coming through the living room with their cousin Hammer, a burly man with a shaved head and a dragon tattoo. "Clearing brush is strickly men's business. Wimmen belong barefoot in the kitchen, baking us brownies."

Winnie's eyes blazed. "I can wield a chainsaw as well as any man."

"Don't you worry your pretty little head about it," said Hammer. "If we all get poison ivy 'n' itch to death, you can be mistress of the house and take care of the yard."

"Fine. What other duties you want me to do?"

"Tape 'Hee-Haw' and 'Fear Factor' for me, will ya?" said Elmer.


	5. The Council of L Ron

**Chapter 5: The Council of L. Ron**

Burris squinted as he entered the dark vestibule at 492 Rivendale Street. A large brass plaque next to the elevators listed the building tenants. Burris found what he was looking for: "6th Floor - L. RON HAFFELVIN, ATTORNEY AT LAW."

Burris wondered why lawyers always described themselves that way. Back home, you never saw signs for "DENTIST AT TEETH" or "MECHANIC AT AUTOMOBILES". "City folk," he muttered, shaking his head and pressing the elevator button. He felt awkward in his best Sunday denims, wearing the shared family necktie, which was cleverly airbrushed to resemble a trout. Usually it hung pre-knotted on a nail in the barn, waiting for somebody to get married or attend a bail hearing. Around Burris' thick neck, it felt like a tight goat halter.

The meeting room was hushed and well-appointed, with several rows of chairs facing a dais. Dark blue carpeting swallowed up Burris' footsteps as he made his way up the aisle towards the front. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. Real drapes hung from the windows. Not flour sacks or Hefty bags, but genuine velvet. On a sideboard in the corner, there was a carafe of water and several glasses. People didn't drink out of Mason jars here. Burris wished his brother were with him, sharing his delight and wonder at each new thing. And – what was this? Burris watched slack-jawed as a midget dressed in a black vest and apron brought in a pot of coffee and some cloth napkins, and left them on the table. Now he'd seen everything.

"Mr. Burris?" A tall, dark-haired man with stern, arched eyebrows and a widow's peak excused himself from conversation and glided over. "L. Ron Haffelvin, Esquire. I'm pleased you could join us."

"You the one called this meetin'?" Burris mumbled, quietly scanning the room for someplace to spit his chaw. The wastebaskets looked too nice. They had pictures of ducks.

"Yes and no. I've gathered everyone here today at the request of Mr. H. Aristotle Gorn." L. Ron nodded his head at a scruffy-looking man with shoulder-length dark hair, seated in a chair with a briefcase handcuffed to his wrist. "It seems that he has come across some documents of great significance, which he wishes to discuss with you."

"Yeah, yeah, I heard 'bout that," said Burris impatiently. "He wants to shift us off our land. He got hisself some kind o' official deed, right?"

"Actually, no," said L. Ron. "He's come to ask for your help. He has found a mighty weapon which could either save Gonder Holler, or destroy it."

"He ain' after our lan'?"

"At this point, it's moot. There is a common enemy that threatens you both. Mr. Gorn and I will brief everybody on the situation. The meeting's about to start, so help yourself to tea or coffee, and find a seat."

Burris slouched into a chair in the front row, his legs stuck out into the aisle, spitting discreetly into a cut Waterford glass. L. Ron called the meeting to order, first introducing the participants to each other. Burris nodded awkwardly when his name was read, his face crimson, the necktie cutting into his flesh. In addition to L. Ron and Mr. Ari Gorn, there were Meg O'Lass (a tall, willowy city planner with long blonde hair), Jim Lee (a short, bearded prospector), and a wise-looking, ancient developer named Randolph, with a pointed hat and wooden cane. Behind them sat a zoning official, a wetlands expert, two councilmen, and several attorneys. _What in tarnation is goin' on_? Burris wondered. Something was up. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the midget come back into the room and start tidying around the wastebaskets with a brush and dustpan. L. Ron cleared his throat and began.

"Strangers from other parts of town…Friends….Eavesdropping midgets. You have been summoned here today to answer the threat of Starbucks. Our fair city stands upon the brink of destruction. None can escape it. Malls, airports, stadiums, every street corner in America…we are bound together by this one fate, this single addiction to expensive, rococo caffeine."

Starbucks? Burris recalled Ferris' dream, the great wave of concrete, the woman who sang of coffee. Was this the answer to all the riddles? _So it is true_, he thought.

"Bring forth the marketing plan," L. Ron commanded.

Mr. Gorn rose to his feet, unlocked the briefcase, and produced a 200-page document. An audible gasp rose from the others.

"Is this the Starbucks marketing plan?" said Jim Lee. "It must be worth three billion dollars, at least. How does such a valuable document come to be in our hands?"

"It was left on a table at a Cinnabon in the Cleveland airport," said Ari Gorn. He laid the marketing plan on the dais. Everybody gaped at it. Evil seemed to radiate off it. The paper was unnaturally white. A faint hissing noise emanated from it. Burris heard whispering, murmuring, voices from long ago. He felt a sense of unlimited power and global enfranchisement. In a trance, he rose to his feet, and told the assembled company of Ferris' dream. Except, he turned it into his own dream and embellished it a little, because stories always sound better that way.

"A voice was crying, _Doom is near at hand…The caramel frappucino has been found_," he said. "And then I were back in school, not wearin' any clothes, and there was a big ol' algebra test that day…" His voice trailed off. The marketing plan was calling to him, a thing of power and beauty. He had to have it. He walked towards the dais, his hand outstretched…

"Burris!" L. Ron leapt to his feet. Randolph, the old prospector, closed his eyes and cried aloud in a sonorous voice, amid a roll of thunder: "_Venti venti quad valencia_…." The room darkened, and the midget put one hand to his forehead. Burris shook himself out of his trance.

"Never before has Black Coffee Speech been uttered within the walls of this city," said L. Ron sternly.

"It may yet be heard in all lands of the West," said Randolph.

Burris was still staring at the weapon, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead. "This here doc-yoo-ment is a mighty gift," he said. "Why not use it? My pappy been holdin' out for years against these mall-type joints. It's the farmlands of my people what are bein' bought up…our crops bein' spilt….Give Gonder Holler the weapon of the enemy. Let's use it agin him!"

"Her," corrected Meg O'Lass. "Starbucks is run by a female CEO."

"You cannot wield this thing," said Ari Gorn. "You could not use it….it answers to Sarah Mann alone. It has no other mistress."

"What y'all know about it, Yankee?" sneered Burris. "Butt out."

"That 'Yankee' is the rightful owner of your daddy's property," Meg burst in. "Heir to all the outhouses and rusty tin sheds of Gonder Holler. You owe him some courtesy."

"Meg, sit down," said Ari. "Take a chill pill."

"Gonder Holler ain't got no carpetbaggers," said Burris resentfully. "Gonder Holler don't need no carpetbaggers. Ain't no rightful owner 'cept us."

"We cannot use it ourselves," said L. Ron. "There is only one choice: we must destroy it."

"Hell, what're we waitin' on?" whooped Jim Lee. "Let's get to it!" He leaped out of his chair with a cigarette lighter. But as he approached the document, the flame hissed wildly, then blew back onto his hand. Jim yelped and dropped the lighter. A pulsating flash of malevolence blinded everybody momentarily. The midget dropped his dustpan, felt in his pocket for a tube of Tylenol, and shook out two caplets.

"It cannot be destroyed by any means we possess," said L. Ron. "We tried every paper-destroying mechanism we could think of. Scissors, bonfire, Wite-Out, mice, incontinent dogs. This marketing plan is protected by some weird-ass magic. It was forged deep inside the fortress of the I. Singh Ard Tower, in the fires of the sales and marketing department. It must be taken back and cast into the fiery chasm from whence it came."

"How?" said Meg.

"There's an enchanted paper shredder on the 38th floor."

"Oh."

"Now hang on a ding-dong minute thar," said Burris, "Y'all don't just waltz into Starbucks headquarters 'n' whizz that thing through a shredder. Not even if there were…" he paused, trying to think of the highest number he'd learned in school, "twenty-three of us. Dang foolishness, if you ask me."

"What happens if Sarah Mann gets hold of it again?" asked Jim. "There'll be no stopping her then."

"You got a better plan?" said Meg.

"Yeah, give it to me. Your people can't be trusted with it."

"My people? What do you mean, 'my people'?" Meg leapt to her feet. Instantly there was a fracas. Burris spat calmly into his glass and waited. The midget dropped his dustpan and wound his way over to the podium. Placing two fingers in his mouth, he let out a piercing whistle that stopped the argument cold.

"I'll take it," he said. "Although…I'm kinda short. Also I'm gonna have to get Mapquest to give me directions to this tower."

There was a long silence. Everyone looked at each other.

"Who the hell are you?" said Jim.

"My name's Alfredo. And I'm the one who found the thing in the first place. I was visiting my uncle in Parma last week, and stopped off at the airport for a cinnamon bun on the way home."

Ari leapt to his feet. "That's mighty brave of you to offer, sir. You have my sworn protection."

"And my lighter!" said Jim.

"And my…um…hold on…." Meg searched through her pocketbook. "…my mascara and Tic-Tacs."

Burris was moved enough by the little one's bravery to clamber to his feet and offer to drive. "I got a V-8 engine," he said. "Actually it's a V-7, we're usin' one of the cylinders to prop up the front porch."

L. Ron smiled at the assembled group. "You shall be…the Fellowship of the Marketing Plan. Now don't screw up."

***

Three weeks later, Cousin Cletus was ambling through the weeds along the roadside, looking for dinner. Badger, porcupine, skunk, toad…anything would do, really. Anything small enough to be flattened by a car.

Then he spotted it at the side of the road. A fancy-looking antique horn, the kind that played Dixie.

"Well, corn mah pone…that look like Cousin Burris' horn," said Cletus. He picked it up. It was cloven in two. Nearby, in the dirt, was a red plastic coffee stirrer.

"I'll be jiggered."


	6. Of Herbs and Burnt Weiners

**Chapter 6: Of Herbs and Burnt Wieners**

Back at the homestead, Den was sitting on the end of the couch opposite the busted springs, mopping his forehead. He was puzzled by an unfamiliar prickling sensation at the back of his neck. It felt like little pins and needles. Was it an emotion? He could almost name it. It started with G...gil….guil….guilt. Guilt! That was it. He was almost feeling guilty about banishing Ferris. Dat junk be bonk, La'Tisha had said.

His stomach rumbled like a badly tuned El Camino, reminding him that he still hadn't had breakfast. Over in the corner, the parakeet, Dingleberry, started squawking in response. "Open up! Police! Open up! Police!" It was an uncanny imitation, and it got on Den's nerves. He hurled a TV Guide at the cage and missed. Dingleberry made a noise like BB shot ricocheting off a beer can, and quieted down.

"Need me some distraction," thought Den. He stood up and flipped through the record collection, all two of it, and finally settled on "I'm So Miserable Without You, It's Like Having You Here". Then he rummaged in the kitchen, found one and a half stale Hostess snowballs, and settled back on the couch to eat them. As BHT, polysorbate-80, and artificial cream filling dribbled down his chin, Den wondered what that no-account, shiftless, secondborn son was up to.

***

Ferris took a final hack at a stubborn jack pine and paused to scratch sixty or seventy of his eight thousand chigger bites. It was hotter than a goat's butt in a pepper patch. Goddammit, where were those Rowans? Elmer had probably forgotten all about him and was off noodling for catfish in the creek, or some such foolishness.

In the meantime, the bow saw needed sharpening, and he'd left the whetstone back on the rill, next to the briars. Work was going slowly. For the thousandth time, he wished Burris were here. He took the Dixie horn out of his bag and gazed at it sadly; Cousin Cletus had dropped it off the other day, saying don't pay it no never mind, he could get Ferris a replacement horn at Wally World, and a Confederate flag license plate besides.

A sound behind him in the scrub brush made him turn around. Someone, or something, jittery was scuttling off quickly, as if powered by too much caffeine. Ferris caught a glimpse of soft, pale feet paddling through the thicket. Then he was brought up short by the sight of smoke rising from a fire.

"The hell?" he muttered. Who was picnicking here? Revenuers? Gripping the handle of the bow saw tightly, he stole through the underbrush, being careful to watch for snakes. Whoever it was had some nerve, trespassing on the family land.

Parting the underbrush, Ferris peered out and saw two midgets roasting wieners over a fire.

"I wish we had some tater tots," one of them was saying.

"What the hell are tater tots?"

"You know. Little, mini, po-tay-toes. Extrude 'em, bread 'em, deep fry 'em, stick 'em in a TV dinner."

"Ugh! Keep your nasty tots." The second midget blew at the end of his wiener, which had caught fire. "I'd rather have sole meuniere, fresh foie gras, and a nice '86 Chateau Mouton Rothschild Pauillac."

"Good luck with that."

Ferris had heard enough. He had orders from Den to kill anybody he found messing around with their land. Quietly he drew his Leatherman multi-tool, pulled out the fish gutter, and stepped into the clearing.

"Can I help you boys?" he asked. "This here's our property. What y'all doing in Gonder Holler?"

The midgets gaped at him. Finally the curly-haired one spoke.

"We're…um….tourists," he said. "We're…..looking for the Ripley's Believe It Or Not museum. Why, is that it over there?" He peered off in the general direction of Tennessee, shading his eyes with a hand that was unusually hairy.

"Ain't no tourists in Gonder Holler," said Ferris. "Nothin' to see here, 'cept my crazy daddy and his two best friends, Smith and Wesson."

"Smith and Wesson? Are they nice like you?"

Ferris sighed. Geez, these midgets were dim. "No. Smith and Wesson, as in, the gun makers."

For a tense moment, they stared at one another. Ferris thought he smelled coffee on the curly-haired one's breath. He squatted down so he was at eye level with the midgets. "Now, suppose you tell me what you really doin' here. Who are y'all?"

"My name is Alfredo," said the curly-haired midget. "And this is Gangee."

"Your bouncer?" sneered Ferris.

"No, my cognitive therapist. He also does the cooking and carries all the baggage."

"Well, don't that beat all. Two fancypants midgets havin' themselves a BBQ on our property. Better put out that fire and come with me."

"Wait till I finish my wiener," said Alfredo, crunching into the burnt end with gusto.

"Can't believe you eatin' that plain, without gravy," said Ferris, shaking his head. "No wonder y'all so short."

***

Inside the tin shed where Ferris was camping out, he seated the midgets next to a pile of rusty farm implements and addressed himself to them.

"We've howdied but we ain't shook yet," he told them. "Now it's time to git down to brass tacks and tell me what your business is. First off, where's your skanky pal? Looked like he took a long dip in the ugly pond. "

"Pal? What pal?" said Alfredo. "Seven of us left Rivendale Street after the meeting. One of 'em wandered off somewheres in the Moria subway station tunnel. Two of 'em were related to me, don't know what happened to them either. There was also some chick named Meg O'Lass, and a gruff dude with a pickaxe. And Ari Gorn, and this hick named Burris who kept spitting chaw all over me. "

"Burris was with you?" Ferris grew excited. "You and he was pals?"

"Well, sure…..at least, I thought he was OK." There was an awkward silence.

"It would jar your preserves, then," said Ferris, "if'n I tole you Burris was dead."

"What?" said Alfredo and Gangee together. "Shut UP! How?"

"I was a-thinking you'd tell me," said Ferris, "seeing as how you was with him last. That makes you ree-sponsible, don't it? Pappy always says if you touch something, and it breaks, then you're the one got to fix it."

"Don't look at us, we didn't touch him. Last time we saw Burris, he was…well, he didn't look so chipper, but he wasn't actually, technically, dead. How'd you find out?"

"Cousin Cletus brung me his horn 'bout a week ago. Split right in two, just like a stick of Georgia fatwood. But it weren't just the horn…I had me a gut feeling something wasn't right. See, Burris was my kin. And I had a unnatural dream 'bout him. He was layin' down in the back of a Chevy pickup, just as peaceful as can be, with a whole bunch of red plastic coffee stirrers sproutin' from his chest. I was crossin' the road to collect some blackthorn berries, and that damn ghost truck near 'bout ran me over. So I hucked a rock at it and busted its rear window."

Alfredo whistled. "Wow, you got some imagination, buddy."

Ferris shrugged. "Ate too many Snickers with Cool Whip before bed. You two wait here. I gotta go refill my water jug."

When he had left, Alfredo pulled a manila folder out from his backpack and began caressing it absentmindedly.

Gangee said, "This hillbilly is trouble. We could be stuck here for days."

"Weeks. Holler dwellers are known for their stubbornness."

"The longer we delay, the harder it will be to finish our task. I say we use the marketing plan, just this once."

Alfredo, running his fingers over the cover, didn't answer.

"Open the folder, sir. Start reading. Wrap yourself in powerful marketing jargon and we can stroll out of here unnoticed."

"I can't, Gangee. You were right. You tried to tell me. It's taken me. If I open it and read it, Sarah Mann will see…she'll find me…"

The scuff of Ferris' workboots on the threshold interrupted Alfredo's thoughts (Ferris wasn't used to wearing shoes, and had stumbled a little bit on re-entry). Ferris' keen blue glance fell at once on the folder.

"Supposin' you tell me what you got in that there folder."

Alfredo hugged the folder tightly to his chest. "Nothing."

"Got to be something, the way you're guarding it." Ferris knew exactly what it was. He could feel the power radiating from its evil, legal-sized corners. The answer to all the riddles. The thing his brother had died for. The weapon of untold evil. A clear vision came to him: a string of FERRISBUCKS coffee shops spreading across the drab landscape, bringing flavor and ambience to all. The withered crops, the sickly hens, the dry cows, the thorny snake-infested pastures: none of them mattered anymore. He had only to stretch out his hand and take this for himself. _Seek for the almond latte_, sang the high clear voice from his dream…. He saw Den, clapping him on the shoulder and exclaiming "Boy, I'm proud of you. You saved Gondor Holler and brought honor to our kinfolk."

"You know," Ferris mused, eyeing the midgets, "ain't nobody knows where you two are. You're smack in the middle of an uncleared pasture, and I've got a gas-powered woodchipper out back…wouldn't be no trouble at all for me to snag this marketing plan. No trouble at all. And wouldn't Pappy whoop and holler then? Maybe he'd finally see I'm first rate after all." He reached out a grimy forefinger and toyed with the little tab on the folder. Alfredo shrank back in horror, sweat beading on his forehead, pulse racing. The whispers were unbearable... _Retail expansion…..CAGR of 20% top-line revenue growth…drive out the independents….._ A woman in white flashed in front of his eyes, reaching lasciviously for the folder.

"NO!" Alfredo cried, and sank to the ground, insensible, curling his body protectively around the marketing plan.

"Well, that booger's gonna be hard to thump off," remarked Ferris to Gangee.

"Come again?"

"He's gonna have a hard time givin' up that marketing plan."

"It's starting to take him, begging your pardon, sir. The other day, we stopped for a water break. When I pulled out the canteen, he asked me for a venti sugar-free nonfat 16 pump water with a shot of H20. When I said no, he snarled at me and asked to see the manager. Then we heard footsteps, and I only just pulled him down off the road in time. A huge line of killdozers, earthmovers, and construction workers passed by inches from our heads. The workers had the shakes and were sipping in unison out of steaming cardboard cups. I get chills just thinking about how close we came to discovery. No telling what they would have done with us. Please, sir…we've got to get to the tower of I. Singh Ard and destroy the marketing plan. It's our only chance."

Ferris sighed. War was coming to their front doorstep, and these two plucky little midgets had a job to do. Cutting stumps would have to wait. Den would be furious, but he'd be even more furious if he found out Ferris had let the Marketing Plan of All Power slip through his fingers. Idly, Ferris wondered if he could lure the midgets into a Kopy Kaptain store and trick them into putting the folder face down on a copy machine. But no, that was fool talk, and besides, he didn't have a nickel to be operating any copy machines with. And besides that, Den couldn't read any marketing plan anyhow, not unless it had pictures that you could color with crayons.

"Come on," said Ferris. "I'll take you as far as the edge of our property. Then it's just down the road a spell to get the bus to the White City."

"Hurry," said Gangee. "We don't have much time. Look, Alfredo's starting to get another one of his caffeine headaches." Alfredo's eyes were closed and he was whimpering softly.

As the threesome started off through the briar thicket, Gangee supporting his master, they were followed by a soft, loathsome footstep.

"It's oursssss," hissed the creature, tugging at the tattered rags of a Cinnabon uniform with pale, trembling fingers. "They stole it. We wantsss it….the beverage belongs to us….it's our cherissssshed…. Dunkin' Donuts coffee burns us, yes it does………."

When they passed over the ridge, Ferris looked back; but there was nothing to be seen except shimmering heat and ten thousand chiggers.


End file.
